Seven months later

One hundred days of spreadsheets marking restrictions and bans and who couldn't have sharps. It's hard to even think about. One hundred days of every imaginable derangement clashing in between four walls for months and months and months, some for the foreseeable future. I wonder about those people, who I don’t think I can name. HIPAA. Are they still stuck in that loop? Seven months later? The same day over and over again?

Meds in a plastic cup, 

Therapy 

Cigarettes

Therapy 

Cigarettes 

Therapy

Cigarettes

Meds in a plastic cup.

I’m sure some of them are. I know until recently, Madeline was too.

One thing is for sure, that eerie dystopia and the groundhog day that we lived in slapped me across the face with reality. What was supposed to be two weeks there turned into a month, and I realized that the same way that a month became three, three would become six. So I worked fucking hard. I suffered and I hurt and I exposed myself every day so that I could keep living. Now I’m out, but how the fuck can I look anyone in the eye anymore? How do I move forward as if none of that happened?

I smoked a joint with a group of friends a few nights after getting out. I was still commuting for eight hours of therapy every day. 

I didn’t know what to say…

I didn’t remember how to laugh, or how not to tremble when I spoke.

And guess what? That night I missed, and honestly wished,

to be back between those walls.